A TB Christmas Carol
by Imagine Eternity
Summary: What would happen if the backdrop to the classic Dickens' novel, 'A Christmas Carol' was moved from 19th century London to Sun Hill in 2003? You may well ask. But one thing's for sure The Bill will never be the same again... COMPLETE!
1. Default Chapter

**Welcome to Dickens' classic tale of 'A Christmas Carol' retold in the world of The Bill. The disclaimer for this story is a little awkward because it does feature a few non-fictional characters and that might be enough to have this story removed and me sued. However, in my defence, this is a complete work of fiction and the circumstances/descriptions of the non-fictional characters are in no way intended to offend ormisrepresent them. This is purely for fun and I promise faithfully that there is no malice intended towards anyone.**

**_Paul Marquess is the Executive Producer on The Bill, notorious for killing off rather a lot of characters. But I'm sure he's really a nice bloke all the same._**

**_Esther is (or at least, was), his Personal Assistant. I've met her and what a sweetie she is too._**

**_Richard Handford was a long-serving previous Executive Producer of The Bill. He was responsible for killing off seven characters in an explosion, shortly before he left._**

**_Carson Black worked alongside Paul Marquess for a while, I believe, and could have been a future Executive Producer, but he left. I do not know and will no speculate on the circumstances - that's his business._**

**_Geoff McQueen was the creator of The Bill. Praise be to the Holy Father._**

**The rest of the cast are characters from The Bill, though the implication is that they are not actors but in fact playing themselves.That sounds complicated but it's not really - just read along and you'll get the gist soon enough. It is also really helpful if you have read the original Dickens' novel recently. Not essential, but it helps. Honest.**

**So, on with the show!**

**_Dramatis Personae_ **

Ebenezer Scrooge............Paul Marquess

Fred............. Esther

Bob Cratchit................Reg Hollis

(Ghost of) Jacob Marley...........Richard Handford

Ghost of The Bill Past...........Juliet Becker

Fezziwig....................Geoff McQueen

Belle (equivalent, anyway!).......................Carson Black

Ghost of The Bill Present.............Honey Harman

Emily Cratchit..............June Ackland

Tiny Tim....................Jim Carver (Tiny Jim!)

Ghost of The Bill Future.........Nobody knows...!

**_Chorus _**

Various members of The Bill cast and crew, cast and crew from other programmes and various guest artistes!

oOo

**_Chapter one _**

To begin with, Richard Handford had left. There was no doubt about that. After years directing The Bill, the time had come for him to leave and he had done so, and now one Paul Marquess ruled the roost at Bosun House. The legacy that Handford had left still lived on; several of his characters and ideas remained and he would certainly never be forgotten. Indeed, his name had not even been removed properly from the Executive Producer's office door; but it must be understood that Handford had left or this story will not seem particularly exciting at all. It might not anyway, but hey, you get the idea.

Marquess hadn't bothered to remove Handford's name from the office door because it seemed unnecessary. Everyone who mattered knew that he was in charge now and nothing as trivial as a door plaque was required to convey this information. Handford was gone and Marquess wore the crown.

But Marquess was quite unlike any Executive Producer that The Bill had ever seen. Though it could be admitted that Handford had set the ball rolling, Marquess had done things that fans had never supposed would happen. Such as the killing of regulars such as Matthew Boyden and new ones who had barely sat down, such as Juliet Becker - indeed anyone he felt had run their course. Nobody was ever just transferred any more; they were sometimes arrested themselves, fled the country, or resigned after a traumatic experience; but more often than not, they died. More had died in the first two years of his reign than in all previous years put together! Then there was also the fact that there never seemed to be any storylines these days which did not personally involveme at least one officer and hardly any crimes that didn't involve sexual assault in some shape or form.

Despite this, there was no doubt that The Bill was doing well. Higher ratings, new cast members, a live episode – oh yes, it was doing well, but at what cost? The realism was gone; the light-heartedness, the real crime, the professionalism of the officers …

Marquess did not care about that. He was producing a prime-time show whose ratings had risen dramatically since his arrival and apart from the cost of installing a revolving door at the entrance, it was a well-paid job. The small matter of keeping the programme realistic was not his concern. The days of lighter, more cheerful episodes were long gone and even as Christmas rapidly approached, not a cheerful storyline was in sight and there was no mention of an out-takes show or charity spoof as the likes of Casualty and Eastenders had done. Christmas specials were a mere distraction from hard-hitting, sensational storylines in his eyes and were best avoided, no matter what anyone else might think. This year, viewers were to be treated to the madness of Cathy Bradford, Sheelagh losing her baby and a few full-blown riots.

Our story therefore begins one cold December evening, the eve of the Christmas episode. Reg Hollis perched on a chair in the corridor waiting for an appropriate moment to have a word with his boss while Marquess sat alone in his office, polishing the handle of his well-sharpened axe and reliving the satisfying memories of all those who had perished by his hand. He was so absorbed by these thoughts that his first acknowledgement that anyone had entered his office was a cheery voice which greeted him "Merry Christmas, Paul!" It was Esther, one of his young assistants who always seemed to bear a cheerful smile and the hope for happy storylines.

Marquess barely raised his eyes from the sacking form which lay upon his desk; he had been experimenting with a new logo, namely a skull and crossbones motif at the top and a rather elaborate tombstone border. "Bah," he grunted. "Warheads!"

"Warheads?" Esther repeated, puzzled.

"Surely _you _remember," Marquess snapped, narrowing his eyes. "A strange Australian sweet that a few of your godforsaken 'forummers' sprung on some of the troops last summer. They're incredibly sour, apparently, and make you pull the kind of face that most people only make while watching Eldorado. Debbie, Alex and Di seemed to think it was funny," he continued, "but I don't have time for such antics. There's too much of that around these days; people having fun, it encourages such 'happy' (he grimaced) storylines and that's the last thing we need here."

"Oh, but Paul," Esther retorted, still smiling but this time in disbelief. "The forummers are a lovely bunch; they don't do any harm! They sometimes bring TimTams," she added, licking her lips at the thought. "And anyway, it's Christmas! Every programme has festive, light-hearted episodes around this time of year; surely you don't want yours to be the odd one out? It's a time to be cheerful and loosen up a bit!"

"Don't get too complacent," Marquess raised an eyebrow while determinedly colouring the tip of the axe motif blood red. "If I let up on the rules, the ratings will plummet, mark my words, and you'll be out of a job! The only way to keep it going is with plenty of murders, illicit relationships, sieges…"

"But Paul…"

"Esther! That is the way things are now. If you're longing for the old Christmas episodes I suggest you go and watch 'Twanky', but that's not the way we do things now! Keep Christmas in your way and let me keep it in mine."

"But you don't keep it! You barely acknowledge it exists!"

"It's never done me any harm so far," Marquess snorted. "And nor do I see that it's ever done _you _any _good._"

"Well," Esther paused for a moment. "Maybe that's partly true; Christmas episodes have never sent The Bill's rating's soaring or made a huge profit, but what of that? It's about the spirit of things, showing people happy programmes at this time of year, forgetting the trouble and strife of the real world and uniting in friendship for one day of the year! Maybe it has never benefited us in a financial way but I still believe it has pleased the fans and done good, and I say God bless it!

Just outside the door, Reg unintentionally applauded Esther's speech, but quickly realised his mistake and hastily bent over his script.

Marquess raised an eyebrow. "Any more of that, Hollis," he growled, "and you'll celebrate Christmas by finding a new job!"

"Don't be like that, Paul," Esther interjected, hoping that her outburst had not endangered Reg's career. Look, why don't you come down the pub with the rest of us tomorrow afternoon after the Christmas episode? It's going to be so much fun, everyone's coming."

"On that day," Marquess said slowly, "Satan will be skating to work! Good afternoon."

"But Paul…"

"Good afternoon. Close the door on your way out."

"I can see I'm not going to change your mind, Paul," Esther shook her head sadly. "But I will still wish you a very merry Christmas and hope that some day you will see the true meaning and join us in celebration."

"Good afternoon," Marquess snarled, pressing down the tip of his pencil crayon so hard that it snapped.

On her way out, Esther wished Reg a Merry Christmas which he returned gladly as he held the door for her, relieved that Marquess's bad mood had not seemed to have dampened her spirits. As she departed, however, two men entered and removed their hats as they asked to see the Executive Producer. They were duly shown through to his office and stood before him, a little uneasy perhaps as he hung his axe back on the wall and then turned to them with a look of suspicion.

"Um, good afternoon," one of the men stammered nervously. "You are the Executive Producer of The Bill? Mr Handford?"

"Mr. Handford left years ago," said Marquess, narrowing his eyes. "But I am the new Executive Producer, Paul Marquess."

"Oh, right," the man replied, shuffling the papers on his clipboard. "I do apologise; these must be a little out of date. Still, The Bill lives on successfully through you, eh?" he added, with a friendly laugh.

Marquess did not smile. "Indeed it does," he said pointedly.

"At this time of year," the other man interjected bravely, "It is customary among the senior staff of many such, er, successful and long running programmes such as this to make some provision for the drama schools of the area…? Provide some much welcomed help for the cast members of the future who are often out of work and in heavy debt?"

Marquess thought for a moment. "Are there no ASDA adverts?"

"Pardon me?" the man said, looking bewildered.

"Are there no pantomime cows required? Does Howard from the Halifax need replacing?"

The men exchanged glances and backed away slightly. "Places are limited, it is true," one ventured. "And many would rather give up the profession altogether than resort to..."

"Then let them get on with it and decrease the surplus number of actors," Marquess snapped. "There are far too many new, keen faces around when rejects from dying soaps will do the job just as well."

Realising that any further pleas would be futile, the two men bade Marquess a quiet and mumbled 'Merry Christmas' and departed, pulling their coats around as they ventured out into the bitter cold evening the afternoon had become.

A short while later, a familiar tune filled the air and Marquess peered out of the window to see a small group of young people with autograph books and reindeer antler headbands merrily singing some Bill-related carols.

"Carolling forummers! That's all I need," he growled, slamming the window shut and picking up the phone. "Security?" he said briskly. "Throw a bucket of water over those tuneless idiots, will you?" He slammed the phone down without waiting for a response and turned back to his work.

Eventually the clock struck five and Marquess yawned, got up, tidied away his sketches and started to put on his coat, but then a small cough came from the door. It was Reg, who had only just plucked up the courage to attempt a word.

"Yes?" said Marquess, impatiently. "Oh, it's you. And I know what you're going to say. You want a part in the Christmas episode, don't you?"

"If it's convenient, Sir," Reg nodded nervously.

"Of course it's not convenient," Marquess snapped. Golden oldies like you should have no place in such episodes; you're too _nice_. And it means I'll have to pay you for the privilege. But I suppose I shall be roasted alive if I don't at least have you standing in the background somewhere. Very well, you shall take part in it. But only a small part, mind you, and if you're hoping for any _comedy _like naked Christmas Trees and Barbershop singers you'll be sorely disappointed."

Reg thanked him heartily and set off immediately to tell his colleagues the good news and celebrate. But Marquess left Bosun House alone and drove home in high dudgeon as the snow fell thickly and an eerie fog descended over Canley. He picked up a takeaway and headed for home, a large first-floor flat in the town centre, just off the street.

As he pulled his front door keys out of his pocket, caught up in tissues, fake blood capsules and three crumpled up sacking forms, his gaze drifted to the screen of the intercom. It was the sort whereby the occupant of the house is able to observe the caller by means of a camera while the caller merely sees their own reflection. And at first, Marquess _did _see his reflection, but suddenly the screen grew misty and he stepped backwards in shock as it was replaced by the face of none other than Richard Handford. He did not look angry or unnatural, yet stared back into Marquess's eyes with an unnerving presence as his hair stirred lightly in the wind.

Marquess looked behind him, half expecting some enterprising prankster to be standing there laughing but there was nobody. And as he turned back to the door, the face on the intercom was his once more, as normal as it ever had been.

To say that he wasn't shaken or for a split second wondered if he would shortly need a change of underwear would be a lie; but after a moment he shook his head dismissively and opened the door, supposing that someone must have slipped something funny into his coffee. "Bah, Warheads," he muttered, a little more nervously than usual. Still, he locked the door with much more caution than usual and checked every possible hiding place in the flat that he could think of - including in the washing machine and in the airing cupboard – before he could put on his dressing gown and slippers and sit down with his takeaway and small glass of brandy to steady his nerves.

He turned the television on but quickly back off again on finding that every channel was sporting Christmassy-themed programmes. He was considering an early night as he took a last sip of brandy when something made his eyes turn to an old police car's siren he kept over the fireplace for decoration. It was not plugged into anything and not worked for years, but as his gaze fell upon it, it slowly began to spin. Round and round, faster and faster, lighting up the whole room with red and blue flashes of light, accompanied by the incessant wailing sound that all of a sudden seemed very creepy indeed.

"Warheads!" Marquess stuttered, his eyes wide with fear. "I won't believe it!"

But then, from somewhere downstairs there came a horrible clanking sound that reminded Marquess of the sound effects in haunted houses at the fair. But what could this be? _His _house certainly wasn't haunted … was it? Then a crash – the ground floor door had been flung open – and the clockwork-like sound was coming up the stairs.

"It's still Warheads!" Marquess said aloud to himself, trembling.

His mind was soon changed, however, when his door promptly flew off its hinges and a strong gust of wind sent his collection of sacking forms flying across the room in disarray as the tall, ghostly-white figure of Richard Handford stepped into the room. Apart from the fact that his body was transparent he was exactly the same as the last time Marquess had seen him … except he suddenly noticed what had been making the clanking sound. A chain was fastened around Handford's waist and snaked back out of the door behind him like a tail. Attached to the chain were various pairs of handcuffs, truncheons, a couple of fire extinguishers, even a few small filing cabinets overflowing with redundancy notices and letters beginning with the sentence; "We regret to inform you…"

"Wha … what do you want with me?" Marquess stammered, unable to tear his eyes off the spectre.

"Quite a lot, actually," Handford said, raising an eyebrow. "You know who I am, don't you?"

"I know who I you'd like me to believe you are," Marquess replied, taking a step backwards. "But I don't believe it! I won't! You're a dream, or whatever somebody slipped into my drink earlier. Or maybe the takeaway was off; I thought that onion bhaji tasted a bit funny …"

At this, the apparition opened its mouth and let out a horrible and incredibly loud roar that reached every corner of Marquess's flat and made him fall back in his chair, terrified and all too aware that this vision was indeed real.

Once the din had ceased, Marquess surrendered and fell to his knees before the spectre and begged for mercy.

"Ok, ok, I believe in you," he nodded frantically. "But why do you trouble me? What do you want from me?"

"When we have not done the best we can during our time in a position of authority, and have not walked among our fellow men, we are condemned to do so after we have moved on, unable to do anything about it. This chain," he indicated, "I forged myself over the years, link by link. And since I left my position I have been travelling, dragging it with me everywhere I go. Mine is bad enough; a few dire episodes and killing the firebomb seven saw to that, but I have to warn you that yours is already twice as long and heavy as this.

"Thanks a lot," Marquess remarked. "Have you no comfort to speak to me?"

"Nope," Handford shook his head. "I am not at liberty to disclose to you what I would like to. All I am permitted to tell you is this. Since the day I left I have been unable to rest with this great shadow of my past hanging over me and you are heading exactly the same way!"

"But you started off well," Marquess protested, "You used to be really good! The ratings were rising, the money was rolling in ..."

"But the realism was left behind!" Handford cried in frustration. "I had a duty to carry on The Bill in the way we all knew and loved, but I thought I knew best. I brought in all the new characters, hyped up the storylines but it wasn't what anyone wanted! And now I stand watching the farce that it has become, unable to do anything about it!"

Marquess shifted uncomfortably.

"I have not long left," Handford said, more quietly as he glanced towards the clock. But before I leave I am to tell you that it is possible you may yet escape my fate."

"Phew," Marquess released a breath he had been holding inadvertently for the past few minutes. "Thank you, that's a relief!"

"I haven't finished yet," said Handford, lowering his eyes and surveying the younger man who suddenly started to tremble again.

"You are going to be haunted," he began, "by three spirits."

Marquess's jaw dropped open.

"Dare I ask why?"

"They can show you things that I cannot," said Handford, gathering his chain about himself. "Without their messages you will not escape my fate. Expect the first this very night when the clock strikes one. The second the next night at the same time, and the third on the next when the hour is twelve."

"My clock doesn't strike at all, actually," Marquess admitted, "it's digital."

"Handford narrowed his eyes and leaned in closer. "You know what I mean, Paul," he said in a low voice, as Marquess nodded apologetically.

"And I couldn't see all three at once, just to get it over with?"

"Don't push your luck, Paul. Now I must go. Remember what I have said tonight, for your own sake."

The apparition walked slowly to the television and picked up the remote control. He aimed it at the screen and pressed the 'on' button twice but nothing happened.

"Richard," Marquess ventured nervously, "That's my mobile, actually."

"Ah," the spectre nodded, his cheeks turning a very slight shade of pink. "That would explain it." He picked up the real remote control and turned on the television. Normal programmes appeared as he channel-flicked, but in each one there were white, transparent figures floating in mid air, seeming unseen by the actors or presenters. And each time a cheesy line was said, a deceased character was mentioned, or even worse, Simon Cowell appeared, one or two of these figures would reach out futilely or weep for the fate of such programmes, knowing they were helpless to alter their course.

As his eyelids began to droop, Marquess suddenly became aware that Handford was gone. And looking quickly back at the television, so too were the ghosts, if that was what they were.

He turned it off and checked his front door, which was exactly how it had been before Handford's appearance; securely locked. He traipsed through to his bedroom, still not quite sure what to believe but before he had a chance to consider the matter further, a wave of exhaustion overcame him and on reaching his bed he fell straightaway into a deep sleep.


	2. A TB Christmas Carol Part 2

_**A TB Christmas Carol**_

_**Chapter 2**_

When Marquess awoke, it was so dark he could barely see to the other side of the bedroom. He felt into the drawer of his bedside cabinet, drew out a small torch and shone it at the clock on the opposite wall which showed twelve o'clock precisely. 'That can't be right', he thought, 'I got to bed at about half past one. Surely I haven't slept through a whole day and into another night?'

He could not make sense of it. He looked out of the window, where the dark, chilly streets looked the same as they did every night. He climbed back into bed, pulling the duvet up high as he realised how cold the room was, in spite of the central heating. He lay back down but could not sleep; all he could think of now that he was awake was the 'ghost' of Handford. Had that been real?

He considered this over and over again, but every time he almost managed to convince himself that it had all been a dream, something else inside him told him that it wasn't, and the whole process would start all over again. Then an idea struck him. 'He said that the ghost would appear at one o'clock,' he told himself. 'So, I'll stay awake 'til then and when nothing happens, I'll _know _it was just a dream.'

The minutes dragged by much slower than Marquess would have liked, but soon it was twelve thirty, then twelve forty-five, then …

"One o'clock!" Marquess said aloud, triumphantly. "And no ghosts in sight!"

But no sooner had the words escaped his lips than a soft rumbling sound began from somewhere nearby, rather like a low flying aeroplane except it was not coming from above the room. Not below either. So what was it?

The noise grew louder and louder until it was quite deafening, yet still it was unclear where it came from until Marquess noticed that to his horror, a bright lights were shining out of the keyhole of his wardrobe, and now the whole thing was beginning to shake violently from side to side.

Marquess could not help wondering what was to become of his best suit and ties when, without warning, the wardrobe doors flew open, the noise (which was now more like a terrible roar than a rumble) became even louder and a brilliant light filled the room as a motorbike with its headlights on full beam flew through the open doors and landed squarely on the carpet.

Marquess had pulled the duvet up over his face as the room had been illuminated and only now peeked out to see the rider of the colossal, ghostly white motorbike dismount and begin to remove its helmet.

"That's all I need," Marquess whimpered, "a Hell's Angel in my room at one o'clock in the morning! Who are you? What do you …? Oh…"

The rider removed its helmet and shook its long, glossy brown hair free before turning to face him with piercing eyes and a slightly sarcastic smile.

"Juliet!" Marquess gasped. "This can't be – you're dead!"

"Oh, really?" she replied, rolling her eyes. "I hadn't noticed!"

"Are you the, er, ghost that Mr. Handford mentioned might be popping by…?"

"That's right. I am the ghost of The Bill's past."

"Um, I hope you don't mind me asking, but why you? You were never in The Bill over the Christmas period?"

"And why was that?" asked Juliet, coldly, folding her arms. "_Someone _decided to sack me before that could happen."

"We're digressing," Marquess said quickly. "What brings you here?"

"Your welfare, believe it or not."

"Don't you think that maybe letting me have a good night's sleep ready for the Christmas episode tomorrow might not be more productive?" Marquess suggested, tentatively.

"The welfare of The Bill, then," Juliet shrugged. "Come on." She turned towards the bedroom door and wheeled the motorbike through to the living room.

"Where are we going?" Marquess asked nervously as he got out of bed, pulled on a pair of fluffy slippers and followed.

"Stop asking so many questions," said Juliet impatiently as she fastened her helmet back on and handed Marquess a spare. "Can't be too careful these days," she added, noticing the bemused look on his face. "Climb up and we'll get going."

Marquess had never ridden a real motorbike before, let alone a phantom one, so it was with great apprehension that he mounted the fearsome looking structure, checked the fastening on his helmet and gripped the sides, wondering how many people would believe him if he regaled them with this anecdote tomorrow morning.

"Ready?" Juliet asked, suppressing a slightly evil grin as she glanced behind at Marquess.

"As I'll ever be," Marquess squeaked, two octaves higher than he usually spoke. "This contraption is safe, isn't it?"

"Oh, probably. Only one way to find out!" she replied, pulling down her visor and revving the engine.

Marquess could not help feeling a little concerned about what the state of his carpet might be after having a whacking great motorbike drive over it, but the importance of this was suddenly pushed aside when it dawned on him that the bike was not facing the door, but the fireplace.

"You…you can't be serious!?" he called, over the roar of the engine as his eyes grew wider. "The chimney!?"

"If it's good enough for Father Christmas it's good enough for us," yelled Juliet triumphantly as she gave the accelerator a hefty kick. They shot forwards so fast that Marquess did not have time to argue. In the few seconds that the solid brick fireplace approached he abandoned all his principals and flung his arms around Juliet's waist, holding on for dear life at the same time wishing that he'd got round to making out his last will and testament.

He waited for the crash, but it didn't come. Instead, the motorbike, with both of its riders intact was suddenly driving directly upwards. Even though it was dark, Marquess knew perfectly well where they were; it _was _the chimney! He could see the light at the end of it, pointing up into the night sky where the moon was glowing bright, despite the fog.

As they burst out of the chimney top, however, a swirling fog descended that was so thick, Marquess could see no further than a few feet in front of him. He felt the motorbike fall level, which was something of a relief, but as the fog lifted he realised that they were not on solid ground but instead flying through the air over a city he did not recognise straight away.

They flew lower and lower, until they came to a halt outside a large building just off the city centre. Juliet removed her helmet as she jumped down and beckoned Marquess to do the same.

"Do you recognise this place, Paul?"

"Why, yes!" Marquess exclaimed in awe, placing his helmet on his seat as he surveyed the tall structure. "I was trained here when I was a boy!"

"Let's go and see," Juliet smiled. "We'll leave the bike here."

"I wouldn't, actually," Marquess shook his head gravely. "It'll have been wheel clamped by the time we get back; the traffic wardens around here are ruthless…"

Juliet glared at him.

"Sorry," Marquess mumbled, turning pink.

As they entered the building, young men and women were milling around the entrance hall where a huge Christmas tree stood, adorned with flashing lights, glittering baubles and tinsel. Everyone had a kind word for one another as they passed, many with suitcases or carrying beribboned gifts as they departed for the Christmas holidays.

"My friends!" Marquess gasped, smiling for the first time that evening. "I recognise everyone! There's Alan … oh, and Caroline! And Carmen, Rick, Mina … well I'll be damned, there's Mal! He's in charge of Casualty these days, you know. What a wonderful place this was; so full of laughter and happiness…"

"Really?" Juliet looked puzzled. "Strange how you had forgotten that for so many years, isn't it?"

Marquess pretended not to have heard that, and instead walked up to one young man he recognised and greeted him. The boy did not seem to hear him and walked straight past to join his friends. Marquess turned to Juliet.

"They cannot see or hear us," she explained, shaking her head. "These are but shadows of the past; a living memory, if you like. Come, there is someone else you may recognise."

She led him up the great staircase, down a long corridor, then through a door and down a smaller, darker corridor into a room where happiness and laughter were absent. A lone young man sat at a desk writing an essay by the dim light of a table lamp with an expression of great melancholy.

Marquess sat down slowly on a stool beside the whiteboard and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his eyes as he observed his former self so alone and unhappy, doing his best to disguise this as a noseblow.

"You're not fooling anyone, mate," Juliet peered down at him, smiling sympathetically.

"I couldn't go home that Christmas," Marquess said, as matter-of-factly as he could. "Too many essays to finish; too much to get done. It was only for one year," he added, with a cough. "I had some very happy times here. I remember the time a group of us all dressed up as pantomime characters and went carol singing! Oh, that was so much fun! We were all hideously out of tune, of course, but the thought was there. One of my friends went as the Genie from Aladdin," he grinned, "and painted his face blue for the occasion. Only problem was, he used writing ink that wouldn't come off and he had a blue face for the whole Christmas!"

He burst out laughing and for a few moments was unrecognisable as the man he usually was.

"And a few of us couldn't resist singing the more, erm, risque words to the carols," he added, looking all of a sudden like a naughty schoolboy. "But it was always harmless, good clean fun. Though some grumpy so-and-sos took it upon themselves to threaten us with bucketfuls of cold water if we didn't shut up … oh … I wish …"

"Mm?" Juliet looked at him questioningly.

"Oh, nothing," Marquess said hastily. "It's just that there were some carol singers outside the studios yesterday … in retrospect I might have liked to listen."

Juliet smiled thoughtfully. "Let's see another Christmas."

In an instant, the young man at the desk had aged a couple of years and appeared to be much happier as he shook hands with a rather formidable looking gentleman.

"Off to start your apprenticeship, then, Paul?" he nodded slowly. "Just in time for Christmas, too. Well, good luck to you; may you bring much happiness to today's screens!"

"That's more like it," Marquess smiled broadly to see his former self leave the room with a spring in his step. "What a day that was!"

"It got better, too, didn't it?" Juliet reminded him. She turned towards the door and gave a piercing whistle; seconds later the motorbike roared into the room and stopped obediently beside her.

"Come on, we haven't got all night," she said, climbing on and starting up the engine. On you get - there we go – ready?"

"Almo…" Marquess clung on tight once more as the bike spun around, shot back through the door, down the corridors, down the stairs and straight though the main doors without so much as disturbing a bauble on the tree. Then they climbed into the sky again and soared through the clouds and fog briefly before dipping downwards back into the city and finally coming to rest outside the ITV studios.

"I had a suspicion this might be our next stop," commented Marquess as they disembarked. "And how wonderful to see this place again! I was an apprentice here for several happy years!"

They entered into the building, tiptoeing past a large and rather scary looking security guard just to be on the safe side. And then into a studio where it seemed that a programme's filming had just ended and the staff were packing up. Two young men were rather anxiously trying to fill in some forms in the corner, but their faces lit up when an older, authoritative looking man stepped over to them and playfully plucked the forms out of their hands.

"No more work tonight, lads," he grinned. "Save that for the new year. Time to enjoy ourselves and watch some of our handiwork over a glass or two of bubbly!"

"Well, I'll be damned," Marquess exclaimed. Geoff McQueen! The Bill's creator! How good he was to us! So patient and constructive … how I wish …"

"Yes?" said Juliet, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, nothing. Just Reg … I wish I could say a few words to him now."

Juliet and Marquess watched his former self along with all of his colleague and bosses file into a larger room with plenty of sofas and comfortable chairs where a large TV screen had been erected. Everyone was offered a glass of champagne for all their hard work and sat around laughing and joking over the festive programmes they had created.

"Look, everyone!" McQueen cried suddenly. "It's Twanky!"

And so it was. The Christmas episode of The Bill from 1997 appeared and the whole room roared with laughter at the three Twankies, Deakin's leap into the orchestra pit, Rod Skase in drag and the awful Superintendent jokes. And when that was over, they all drank a toast to Christmas television and celebrated long into the evening.

"Those were the days, eh?" Juliet sighed, noticing Marquess's face fall. "But come, my time grows short, there is something more."

Back onto the bike they went and once more they soared through the sky, this time stopping at a place Marquess knew only too well; The Bill studios. As they stepped through the wall into his office, there was Marquess almost exactly the same as he was now, speaking with another man.

"Carson Black!" Marquess uttered in shock.

The two men were both standing facing each other, though neither dared to look the other in the eye and the atmosphere was clearly tense.

"You do not need me any more," said Black, after a long silence. "I came here to bring a little realism back to The Bill, turn it back towards crime. But you don't care about that; all you care about is ratings achieved by controversy."

Marquess's former self sat and folded his arms, looking stoically at the floor.

"You are not the person I thought I was coming here to work with," Black continued. "We were to be partners, working together towards a good, solid programme that everyone knows and loves. I thought we walked the same path but that is so clearly not the case."

He took his coat from the back of the door and put it on without a backward glance at Marquess.

"Farewell, Paul. May you be happy with the fate you have chosen."

"It could have worked well," Juliet observed. "It really could."

"Show me no more," pleaded Marquess, who sat perched on the edge of the motorbike with a hand over his eyes. "Please, no more, I have seen enough."

"One more," said Juliet, yanking him back onto the motorbike before he could protest. "Last one, now."

Within seconds they were standing outside an unfamiliar TV studio, looking in through a window. It was unclear what the programme was about just by looking, but it was clearly full of festive cheer and none other than Carson Black was leading the proceedings, surrounded by co-workers praising his ideas. Marquess and Juliet stepped through the wall just in time to hear the conversation between Black and a man he had not seen before.

"I saw that geezer you used to work with t'other day," the man said, nudging black and giving a sly grin. "In his car, filling out another sacking form, I think. Honestly, that bloke's the limit! No wonder he's so unpopular!"

"Nothing do with me any more, Black shrugged with a careless smile. What he gets up to now is his own funeral."

"That's enough!" Marquess demanded, falling to his knees beside the motorbike. "I can't take any more!"

"These are shadows of the past, they are times that are dead," said Juliet, "You cannot blame _me _for any of it, it is merely what has already happened."

"I can't bear it!" cried Marquess in despair. "Please, take me away from here!"

He clung to the side of the bike, adamant that he would be shown no more shadows of the past. After a moment he became conscious of the fact that he was no longer kneeling on gravel but on a carpet, and on raising his head, to his astonishment he found himself back in his bedroom, holding tightly to his exercise bike beside the wardrobe.

His relief at being home was so great that he barely had time to think of the evening's events before he collapsed into his bed and fell into a heavy sleep.

oOo


	3. A TB Christmas Carol Part 3

_Here is part three, oh loyal readers... if there are any of you out there! I haven't had many reviews on this one which is a little disappointing, considering that personally I think it's one of my best fics.This doth not bode well. Butif nobody reviews, I might assume that nobody wants to read the rest and not bother posting parts four and five. And you wouldn't really want that, would you...? _

_**A TB Christmas Carol**_

_**Chapter Three**_

When Marquess opened one eye some time later, it was not with the relief that everything that had happened so far was a dream; he knew by now that this was definitely not the case. He shone his torch at the wall clock, to find that there was only half a minute to go before one o'clock, but when the hour arrived, nothing out of the ordinary happened.

He had steeled himself ready for another of The Bill's deceased cast members to haunt him, yet none came. Still, he was not complacent enough to think that he'd been reprieved from his haunting, so he slowly got out of bed and mentally prepared himself for the next ghost. He looked in the wardrobe again, but there was nothing unusual in there, nor was there anything under the bed.

But then he became aware of a bright light shining under the close door leading to the living room. He was just about to reach for the doorknob when a voice called his name. It was not the kind of voice he had expected, if he had expected any voice. It was young, female and cockney.

"In you come, darlin'," the voice said again.

Overcome by curiosity, he opened the door and walked into the room …except it was not the living room, but in fact his bedroom! Or at least, it looked a bit like his bedroom but had undergone an amazing transformation. Christmas decorations hung from the ceiling, a brightly lit tree graced one corner and memorabilia from The Bill adorned the whole room. Signed cast cards, books, videos, handcuffs, asps, stab vests, even two twelve-inch Barbie style dolls kitted out in full riot gear. Hovering about three feet above the floor in the middle of the room, in full Lotus position was Honey Harman, meditating.

Marquess took a step backwards.

"Ah there you are," she grinned, floating back down to the floor. Come and say 'ello, then."

"Erm, Good Evening," Marquess stammered, taking a tentative step towards her. "Without sounding rude, what are you doing in my bedroom?"

Honey grinned again. "Nothin' like _that, _darlin", she winked. "Nah, I'm the Ghost of The Bill present."

Marquess looked doubtful.

"I, um, somehow expected them, er, you, to be a giant," he admitted. "And, uh, male. And … well, just sort of … different!"

Honey looked up at him with puppy-dog eyes. "Yeah, well, times are changin' now, aren't they? I'd have thought you of all people would know that," she added with a slightly disapproving glance.

"Right," Marquess nodded awkwardly, clearly defeated. "Well, we'd better get on with it. Whatever you are here to teach me, I'm ready."

"That's the spirit!" Honey exclaimed, clapping him on the back so hard that he almost fell headfirst into the wardrobe. "The spirit? The spirit? Get it?" she giggled helplessly for a moment as Marquess managed a nervous chuckle. "Right then, let's get this show on the road. Touch my epal…eppau…shoulder pad thingy."

Marquess did as he was told and in a flash they were standing in the entrance hall to a huge television studio. Everywhere they looked, actors, directors, producers and camera crew were rushing around, learning lines, carrying props and narrowly avoiding collision with each other as they prepared for their Christmas episodes. Many were decorated themselves, in some shape or form; several times someone would go by wearing tinsel in their hair or with a hopeful sprig of mistletoe attached to a headband. Others blundered past wearing interesting 'heads', including a donkey, a crocodile, cat or a waxy imitation of one of the royals. There were at least fifteen different Santas in the building, all with incredibly unrealistic beards; a hospital bed ready for some soap character's inevitable birth and a wedding scene being brought past, pew by pew, just in case.

"Innit lovely?," Honey cooed, smiling nostalgically.

As they strolled around, observing the jovial mayhem, Honey reached into her pocket and drew out a handful of karma beads, and everywhere they went she left a couple, either in someone's pocket, beside a camera or down the back of the sofa if there really was nowhere else.

"What are they for?" Marquess asked.

"Well, things are bound to get a bit fraught sometimes," she admitted, nodding wisely. "Some people get more stressed about last minute panics than others – particularly Capricorns – so the beads are just there to calm' em down and make sure they're emotionally balanced out."

As she spoke, a very flustered Father Christmas pushed into the room, desperately trying to glue his fake beard back on with one hand and learn his script with another.

"Bloody thing!" he yelled in frustration, "Why can't he have had a shave this year!?"

Honey glanced knowingly at Marquess, then slipped five karma beads of varying colours into the man's hood.

"He needed that," she commented, looking him up and down. "He's a Libra."

Almost straightaway, 'Santa's mood lifted and within a couple of minutes he had calmed down sufficiently enough for him to glue the beard on successfully.

"Ah well, time we were out of here," said Honey, looking at her luminous pink watch. "There's another studio we need to visit."

Marquess touched her epaulette once more and in an instant they were whisked to a much more familiar place; The Bill's studios. Honey led Marquess straight through the wall into the Green Room where a small group of officers sat around close together with mugs of coffee.

"It's nearly time," said June Ackland, quietly, glancing up at the clock. Tony Stamp nodded with a somewhat forced smile and Jack Meadows stared thoughtfully into his coffee cup.

Honey shook her head sadly and emptied what was left of her stock of karma beads into a nearby pot plant.

On getting no verbal response, June looked around and tried to look enthusiastic. "Come on, you lot," she tried again, "We've got to stick together and make the best of it. I know none of us got the … recognition we'd hoped for this year, but we can't give up hope."

"I feel a bit guilty, in all honesty," Sheelagh admitted. "I haven't been in it long and I still get better roles than the ones who deserve them more, like you, June and Tony. I gave birth in a shed and you jumped into bed with your son – it's just not right!"

"Don't blame yourself," said June, kindly. "You didn't write the scripts. And it's good that a few of us _have _had some good storylines."

For a moment there was silence, then Smiffy put down his mug and stood up.

"June's right," he said, determinedly. "We may have cr… um, not-all-that-great parts this year but we can't let that get us down. We're going to have fun, and sod the management! Let's celebrate the best we can!"

This seemed to spur everyone else into action. More of the cast arrived in small groups, and before long Tony was cutting out a large 'Pin the helmet on the copper' while June and Sheelagh decorated the tree, Smiffy went off in search of some working fairy lights, Nick Klein arrived with a large tray of mince pies he'd found on special offer at Abbey Mills. Jack Meadows managed to get an incredibly old record player working and managed to persuaded Samantha Nixon to dance with him to 'Rockin' around the Christmas tree', Debbie and Eva turned up wearing reindeer antlers and Adam Okaru followed shortly afterwards in a full Santa outfit.

Marquess stood there, smiling like he hadn't smiled for years as his staff celebrated the Christmas episode with great enthusiasm, in spite of what reservations they might have about each other or the storylines in general.

As the fun continued well into the evening, it seemed like everyone was there enjoying themselves. But it was not until two faces appeared in the doorway that Marquess noticed who had been missing. Reg Hollis, grinning from ear to ear with an arm around Jim Carver. Alas for Jim, he had the smallest role of all in the Christmas episode and it was certainly not a happy one, but still he joined in the festivities as well as anyone else and did not stop smiling all evening.

Once they, too, had re-watched Twanky and filled their glasses with champagne, Reg called for quiet and proposed a toast. "To The Bill; long may it continue. And may Carlton bless us all."

"Carlton bless us, every one," everyone echoed.

"Carlton bless us, every one," said Jim quietly, smiling as best he could.

"And to Paul Marquess, our producer."

Marquess and Honey exchanged glances, both knowing that the other was thinking exactly the same thing.

June almost choked on a mouthful. "Are you kidding, Reg?" she gasped. "I'm telling you, if he was here now I've had just about enough bubbly to tell him exactly what I think of him. Constant murders, psychopaths, riots – I'll give him mur…!"

"June," Reg said quietly. "It's Christmas."

"I'll drink to him for you, Reg," June sighed, "May he have a very merry Christmas as well." She then downed the rest of her champagne in one to calm her nerves.

The mention of Marquess was doubtlessly the cause of the rather awkward next few minutes, but fortunately the sombre mood did not last. Within ten minutes everyone was at least twice as happy as they had been before. The music got louder, more mince pies were located from somewhere in Custody and before long, Sheelagh was leading everyone in a chorus of 'I'm in the mood for dancing' while Gina and June attempted a very unique version of the can-can.

Marquess watched as the party went on, but noticed Jim looking rather downcast as he read his storylines for the next few weeks and sipped at his orange juice with less enthusiasm as usual.

"Honey," he asked slowly, "Tell me the truth; is Jim going to be axed?"

Honey looked at the floor. "I see a vacant seat in the canteen," she said sadly, "And a uniform with no owner."

"Oh no! No, Honey, tell me he can be spared!"

If things stay as they are, then yes, Jim will leave. But isn't that a good thing?

Shouldn't he just hurry up and be gone and decrease the surplus number of actors?" asked Honey sarcastically, haunting him with his own words.

"I know it sounds harsh, darlin'", Honey continued as Marquess stared shamefully at the floor, "But it shouldn't be up to you who comes and goes. Is it really right that you have the power to mess around with other people's lives like this? You know, it could be said that people like this have more right to a job than you."

Marquess did not reply; words suddenly seemed unnecessary.

"Come on," said Honey, after a long pause. "Let's leave 'em to it. We've got other places to visit."

On they went to many studios, watching as various cast members of other programmes had their Christmas episodes and parties and celebrated in whatever way pleased them the most. Everyone had kind words for each other, thanks to Honey's contribution of more karma beads (she made a quick diversion into Abbey Mills on the way to replenish her stock) and everyone made the best of what they had, whether their programme was topping the ratings or about to be pulled off air altogether.

Everywhere they went, kind words were being spoken and differences put aside. Richard and Judy were not arguing or interrupting each other; Ant and Dec had made far fewer rude comments than usual about Simon Cowell and even Richard Whitely had refrained from reciting bad poetry for the occasion.

Eventually they arrived at the Canley Arms where Esther and her colleagues were laughing hysterically at a joke someone had just told. Marquess and Honey had not quite arrived in time to hear it, but the small talk afterwards gave them a fair idea.

"He just grunted and said 'Warheads!'" Esther smirked, shaking her head. "And he really believes it, too. Oh, I don't know – I couldn't hate him if I tried; I feel sorry for him if anything."

"Really?" a blond-haired man asked with a look of great disbelief.

"Yeah, I do," Esther said sincerely. "Here we are out enjoying ourselves and having a laugh while he's … well, I guess he's stalked off home early on his own. The only person he's fooling is himself. I invited him out with us, I did my best, but you know him. Ah well, he's the one missing out."

And Marquess could do nothing but watch as the staff enjoyed themselves in much the same way as the cast; drinking toasts, reminiscing about past Christmas episodes and even some karaoke after a few more drinks. And yet he enjoyed watching, he laughed at their jokes and applauded at the end of the karaoke.

Honey was quite delighted to see his mood so changed that she did not hurry him on for quite some time, especially when he actually asked if they could stay to watch for a little longer.

"Hmm, I dunno, darlin', time's getting on a bit," she said doubtfully, looking at her watch. "Well, ok, just five more minutes, yeah?"

Marquess thanked her and watched as the group of now rather intoxicated colleagues began a 'yes or no' game where one person had to think of something and the others had to guess what it was by asking questions that can only be answered 'yes' or 'no'.

They found that the object was technically an animal but wore clothes, was in command of others, was sometimes feared, sometimes ridiculed, was definitely not popular and had been responsible for rather a lot of fatalities. It did not take long at all for the entire group to chorus Marquess's name and promptly explode into laughter.

"A toast," Esther giggled helplessly. "He's given us so many laughs I think it's only right to drink to his health if nothing else. To Paul Marquess!"

The others echoed his name and Marquess wished with all his heart that he was able to reach out, shake their hands and thank them.

"Aaargh, sod it!" Honey exclaimed suddenly. "Gawd, I lost track of the time! We should have been out of here by now; my time's almost up."

She opened her handbag and rummaged around, eventually pulling out two new contracts. Both were full of spelling and punctuation errors, cheesy lines and embarrassingly bad illustrations.

Marquess grimaced as he looked at them, wondering how anyone could stoop so low as to produce any programme that these might belong to.

"Are … are these _yours?_" he stuttered in horror.

"They're the actors' in general," she said. "This one's an Australian soap. This one is a reality show. Beware of them both, Paul, but particularly beware of the latter because written inside is 'Doom' unless the you can Tippex over it."

"Yes!" Marquess cried. "Do that! Erase it, tear it up! No actor deserves a fate like this! Are there no options left?"

"Are there no pantomime cows required?" Honey asked, taunting him once more with his own words. "Does Howard from the Halifax need replacing?"

From somewhere nearby, a church bell struck twelve and made Marquess jump. He looked around for Honey but she was gone, and as each stroke echoed out over Canley he remembered with terror what Richard Handford had said about the last ghost. Spotting a post-it note stuck to the back of one of the contracts, he unpeeled it and lifted it up to the light in the hope that Honey had left him some message of guidance or comfort.

It read: 'Look behind you! Love, Honey. xx'

Marquess did not want to turn around. Being a fan of Dickens he had a fair idea what to expect but he also knew that attempts to run away or deny its existence would be futile. Turning slowly and raising his eyes he beheld it; a tall, terrifying phantom policeman in full riot gear, shield, asp and hat but no face gliding silently across the car park towards him.

oOo

_You want part four? Then you know where the review button is!_


	4. A TB Christmas Carol Part 4

_**A TB Christmas Carol**_

_**Chapter Four**_

As the terrifying, faceless phantom glided towards him, Marquess instinctively dropped to his knees on the pavement. No part of the spectre was visible except for one hand, in which it held an Asp that pointed unmistakably to him.

"Are …are you the ghost of The Bill Yet To Come?" he stuttered, his teeth chattering like a rabid alligator.

The phantom did not reply, but instead pointed onwards with the Asp.

"Is your purpose to show me the shadows of things that have not yet happened but will come to pass?"

The phantom nodded slowly. Its oversized helmet wobbled slightly and Marquess hoped that it would not fall off; it would be rather difficult to take it seriously if that happened.

"Spirit," Marquess said suddenly. "I have seen more than my fair share of ghosts this night but it is you who I fear the most. I acknowledge, of course, that Honey Harman is about as frightening as a bowl of custard, but that aside, you are definitely the one I am most afraid of. However, I know that you are here to do me good and make me a better person, so I am willing to bear your company and will be," he gulped, "grateful for the privilege."

The phantom pointed forward with his Asp and after a short while began to glide onwards. Marquess followed, and together they stepped into a swirling mist which engulfed them completely.

As they emerged, Marquess knew immediately where they were; it was the Carlton studios once more. Christmas decorations still adorned the entrance hall but it was clear the festivities had been over for quite some time now. In a quiet corner of the canteen, a small group of directors, writers and actors were having a hushed conversation that Marquess could hear as he drew near.

"No, that's all I know," a dark haired man with a clipboard shrugged. "All I've been told is that he's finally been sacked."

"When was that?" whispered a shorter woman with round glasses.

"Yesterday, I think," her colleague replied. "They haven't announced the reason yet but I don't think it takes a rocket scientist to work that one out!"

The others suppressed a laugh.

"I don't suppose his leaving 'do' will be packed out," said another, carelessly. "They'll be glad to see the back of him, I'd imagine."

The phantom glided on so suddenly that Marquess had to run a few yards to catch up with it as it slipped silently through a wall and into an office. Inside, the producer of some other programme was sitting back in his chair looking smug, as a young woman entered and looked around furtively, but with a sly grin.

"You got them?" the man asked in a low voice.

"Yup," said the girl, drawing out a handful of papers from inside her long black coat. "Nobody saw me, it was easy."

"Hold on," Marquess started, taking a closer look at the papers. "They're new ideas for The Bill's storylines!"

"I just took 'em right off his desk," the girl continued, flicking her hair and perching on the edge of the desk. "Well, it's not as if he needs 'em any more, is it? I reckon with a bit of work we'll be able to pass these off as our own, no probs."

Her boss smiled evilly as he flicked through them. "They'll need a little … a little 'doctoring'," he said slowly, "With this amount of tragedy and deaths, it wouldn't be hard to work out who wrote it. Nobody else was as cruel to characters as him; he even massacred ones who had been there for years and everyone thought they were safe."

"Hard to feel sorry for him, innit?" the girl smirked. "Ironic really that he's been hindering our progress all this time – the only occasion he's ever done us good is after he's been sacked!"

They both laughed nastily and Marquess felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"Bloody hell," he uttered, turning to the phantom, "nobody deserves to be remembered like that. They might as well have been talking about me! Ha, ha … ha …?"

He was silenced instantly by what was unmistakably a glare from the phantom's absent face, but as he looked up again he realised that once more, the scene had changed. They now stood in a small, darkened room with no indication of where in the world they might be; there were no windows, no signs, just one small door which the Phantom blocked with its immense stature.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, Marquess noticed that on the biggest wall there were many A4 sized frames, each bearing a photograph with writing underneath. He squinted as he leaned in closer to inspect one.

He did not recognise the face or name, but it was when he spotted the titles before each body of text that he started to worry.

"Programme name, appointment date, first major cock-up, nail in the coffin, date of sacking, last episode in charge," he read out loud, his voice beginning to waver. All of the others were similar, each a failed Executive Producer whose mistakes had cost them their positions. He glanced nervously back at the phantom who again pointed eerily with its Asp to a frame at the very end of the wall which was covered with a small veil.

"A new addition," Marquess muttered, shuddering. "So I see. Can we leave this fearful place now?"

The phantom pointed at the frame once more.

"Of course I'm curious," Marquess admitted, "in fact, I'm desperate to lift the veil and see whose face that certificate bears. But I have no power to do so."

The phantom merely stared at him.

"Does nobody feel sympathy for this man?" Marquess asked suddenly. "If there is anyone out there who feels any emotion for this man's departure, let me see them!"

Almost instantly there came another rush of fog. As it cleared, Marquess found himself once again in The Bill's studio, this time upstairs in CID. But there was no filming going on now; the only light came from a small table lamp on a desk where Debbie McAllister sat, staring into space. She appeared to be waiting for someone, for as a noise sounded from outside, she jumped up and ran to the door.

Phil Hunter entered the room, brushing the snow off his coat and removing a pair of thick woolly gloves. He seemed to be keen to say something wonderful, for he suppressed a smile but paused to get his breath back before he began.

"Phil," Debbie ventured, clearly unable to contain herself any longer. "Tell me. Is it good or bad?"

"Bad," said Phil, shortly.

Debbie sunk into a chair and covered her eyes. "Then this is the end?"

"No," said Phil, allowing the smile to creep over his face. "Debs, there _is_ still hope."

"If _he _gives in and starts giving us decent storylines," said Debbie, brushing a stray hair out of her face. "And let's face it, the chances of that happening are about the same as Anne Robinson being the face of National Smile Week."

Phil shook his head grimly but still smiled. "He's past that. He's _gone._"

"Gone?"

"Sacked. I just heard."

"Oh … oh Phil, that's the best …"

"It gets better," said Phil, enthusiastically. "His replacement is going to be …"

"Please … say it's…!"

Phil grinned. "Yup. He's back for good. It's going to be okay now, Debs, we can have a happy Christmas after all. Come on, let's go and join the others!"

Whatever differences they might have had in the past were instantly pushed aside as Debbie leapt up and kissed Phil on the cheek, smiling more than she had in months. Then they skipped merrily out of the door like two excited schoolchildren, laughing and joking as they went.

Marquess looked at the floor. He had not been expecting that; he had rather hoped to see somebody mourning the wretched man's sacking or at least remembering him fondly.

"Please, Spirit," he begged, "let me see at least some compassion related to this man, or the only thing I'll remember is that awful dark room."

The phantom seemed to ponder this for a moment before leading him down the stairs, through custody and into the canteen, where the atmosphere was a far cry from the happiness and carefree fun than Honey had shown him in the present. Not everyone was there, far from it, and the few who did remain sat in small groups speaking quietly or not at all while sipping at lukewarm cups of coffee.

June stood beside the small, rather pathetic Christmas tree, half-heartedly hanging up some ornaments. Tony was absent-mindedly polishing his badge while others stared blankly at scripts or exchanged weary glances from time to time, looking thoroughly depressed.

"Can I help you with that, June?" Eva asked quietly, rising and moving over to her Sergeant.

June put down the glittery bauble she was holding and wiped her eyes with a tissue. "The lights," she muttered, "they make my eyes water, but I mustn't tell Reg that after he went to the trouble of getting them specially. Thanks, Eva, that's kind of you."

"He should be here by now," Tony observed, looking at his watch.

"He'll be along soon," June assured him with a small smile. "I think he's just been driving a little slower than usual these last few days. Oh, that sounds like him now."

And indeed it was. Reg opened the door and emerged into the room with a tray of mince pies he had no doubt managed to find for half-price. Everyone greeted and thanked him with grateful smiles, yet the atmosphere remained tense and subdued.

"How is he?" June asked after an awkward silence.

"Oh, not bad, you know," Reg nodded, matter-of-factly. "I told him that more of us would be visiting him in the New Year, once he's …"

"Yes," said June, "Yes, of course we will."

"I'm just going to, erm …" Reg murmured, indicating the door that led to the dressing rooms and made to leave.

Marquess looked towards the phantom for guidance; it gestured for him to follow Reg, which he did, into a dressing room. The notice on the door had been altered; it read 'Reg Hollis and Jim Carver' except Jim's name had a red felt-tip squiggle through it.

Reg pushed the door to behind him, but Marquess stepped through the wall so that he might see what troubled one of his oldest employees, and indeed everyone else, so much. Reg set his coat and scarf down on the back of his chair and gave no obvious clues as to what had happened until he spotted a TV listings magazine on the floor and picked it up to read the headline plastered across the front cover.

"THE BILL'S JIM KILLED OFF AFTER 21 YEARS"

Marquess's eyes widened. He turned and ran back through the canteen to where the phantom stood, looking rather covetously at the mince pies.

"Spirit," he gasped. "Jim, killed off? Tell me it's not true!"

Before he could say anything else, Reg returned and sat down heavily in a plastic chair opposite June and Tony and began to tell them of the kindness and sympathy of none other than Carson Black.

"He stopped me in the street and asked me to tell you all how sorry he is for what has happened. He acknowledges that there are some things he cannot change, but he swore that he will strive to set things right as far as his power allows him. He even said that he will have words with the other 'powers-that-be' out there and do his best to find Jim a new contract with a well established, secure team."

"Oh, Reg," June smiled. "How kind of the man! And after we have only known him for such a short time!"

By now everyone was listening and a few more faces had arrived, all gathered around Reg and listening to the comforting news he had brought. It was comforting, no doubt, for now there were more smiles and even if they were sad, at least now they contained hope for the future.

"We're so like family," said Reg, after a moment's thought. "No doubt over the coming years there shall be more instances in which we will be parted, but I do hope that none of us will ever forget Jim or indeed anyone else who has been untimely taken away from us."

There were several murmurs of "No, never; never forget" around the room.

"He put up with unhappy storylines for so long, with little or no complaint even if he had good reason and could easily have been forgiven for doing so," Reg continued, "and I dearly hope that in future we will not quarrel amongst ourselves and so forget him."

"Never, never" the others murmured again.

"We can be happy now," said Reg, smiling genuinely. "We can be grateful for what we have and raise a glass to everything we used to have. Merry Christmas, everyone!"

Marquess turned suddenly to the phantom and took a deep breath.

"Spirit," he said, trying to muster his courage. "Who was that man whose name and picture were on that shrouded certificate?"

In an instant they were back in the darkened room where the rows of certificates still hung on the wall, the last still covered by a veil. The phantom raised its hand and pointed at it, miming a 'pulling' action with its ghostly hand.

"Before I do," Marquess said, standing before it, "tell me, are these the shadow of what _will _happen in the future, or only those which _may _come to pass? You know, cause and effect; if something changes in the present, surely the ends will be different! Is that true in this case?"

The phantom said nothing but stayed still as a statue, pointing at the veil.

Marquess could bear it no longer; he reached up and pulled it off in one swift movement to reveal a photograph that was all too familiar and his own name.

'PAUL MARQUESS – February 2002 - December 2004.'

"No!" Marquess cried. "Oh, no! Please, no!"

He did not read the rest thoroughly; he did not want to know the details of the awful things he would come to do in the future that were so terrible that ultimately, he would be sacked. The sacking of Jim Carver, the Eastenders crossover, the attempt to represent every possible minority via the introduction of a black, wheelchair-bound, lesbian adoptee with a speech impediment; and of course the ultimate nail in the coffin; Tony Blair's guest appearance.

"Hear me!" Marquess sobbed in despair, kneeling before the phantom and clutching at his stab vest. "I am not the Producer I was! I will change! Why would you have shown me these visions if I was beyond all hope?"

The phantom lowered its Asp as its hand began to tremble.

"Tell me that I may prevent these terrible things that you have shown me this night! Be assured that given another chance I will be a changed man!"

The Asp dropped to the floor.

"I will honour Christmas episodes always," Marquess promised. "I shall make sure that the past, present and future are intertwined to make of it the best that anyone could and please others! I will not shut out the lessons that you and your fellows have taught me. Oh, Spirit! Tell me that I may take my Tippex to that certificate and cover up the words forever!"

In desperation, he reached up and grabbed the phantom's hand and begged once more for him and The Bill to escape their terrible fates. But as he touched it, there was a flash of light and the hand shrunk, dwindling in seconds into a small bedside torch.


	5. A TB Christmas Carol Part 5

_I am SO sorry that this wasn't up in time for Christmas - my computer contracted the 'Trojan Horse' virus and died once and for all on the 22nd December. Luckily I'd already saved all my documents so nothing vital was lost and finally I can post this. I hope you've enjoyed it and can forgive me for the huge delay!_

oOo

_**A TB Christmas Carol**_

_**Chapter Five**_

The torch was his own.

The floor on which he knelt was his own.

The bedroom was his own!

He jumped up, put the torch on his bedside table and flung open the window. It was morning, no doubt about that, but which morning?

"The past, the present and the future," he repeated to himself, scarcely able to believe it. "The spirits of all three shall strive within me! Oh, Richard Handford I thank you!"

He checked his wardrobe for bikers and also his chimney for damage but found none. Nor were there karma beads in any of his pot plants or trouser turn-ups, or any ghostly faces on the intercom. He seized his TV listings magazine and observed Jim's name in the cast list.

"The shadows of things that _might _have happened," he said to himself, grinning from ear to ear, "but have not and will not! Oh, happiness! It was not a dream, no, it was real! Handford on the intercom, Honey meditating, Juliet in the wardrobe … they have saved me and The Bill!"

He began a little dance of victory around the coffee table and was just getting the hang of pirouettes when a thought suddenly struck him. He dashed to the phone and dialled the number of the studios.

"Good morning!" he called down the receiver to his secretary. "Marquess here. This might sound like a daft question but what's today?"

"Sorry?" a confused voice said on the other end.

"Today, my dear," said Marquess. "What happens today?"

"It's worse than I thought," he heard the voice whisper to someone else – it was muffled as though somebody had their hand over the receiver. "He doesn't even know what day it is now. Oh, sorry, Mr Marquess – why, today it's the Christmas episode, of course!"

"YES!" Marquess cried, almost dropping the phone. "It's not too late! The spirits did it all in one night!"

He remembered the phone. "Caroline?" he said quickly, "are you still there?"

"Um, yes … are you all right, Mr Marquess?"

"Never better!" he cried, and meant it. "Listen, I need you to do me a favour. You know that gigantic Christmas hamper on sale in Abbey Mills?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Take an early coffee break, go down there and buy it; tell them to send the bill to me. The bill? The Bill? Get it? Ha ha ha! Anyway, yes, get a taxi back because it will be far too heavy to carry – there's a ten pound note inside my top drawer; use that. Then have it brought through and hide it where nobody will dare look – Tony Stamp's locker should do the trick. Is that all clear?"

"Erm, yes, I think so," Caroline sounded bemused.

"And don't tell anyone – this is to be our little secret! Thanks, Caroline; what a star!"

"What next, what next?" Marquess muttered excitedly to himself. "Oh my goodness, the script of the Christmas episode! It can't stay as it is; how depressing for them! I'll go there now and rewrite the whole thing, I might just have time before filming starts!"

He hurriedly packed his briefcase, throwing in a box of Christmas cards he would no doubt find time to write later and flung open the front door, ready to face the world and make other people happy.

He came face to face with the milkman who could not have looked more startled if he tried.

"Good morning!" Marquess beamed, reaching into his pocket and offering a generous tip. "Merry Christmas to you!"

He locked his door and made to walk down the stairwell.

"Um, mate?" the milkman uttered, uncertainly.

"Yes?"

"I know it's none of my business," he stammered, trying desperately to keep a straight face, "I could be wrong, but do you think … you might have forgotten something?"

After thanking the milkman profusely for being honest and reminding him that he was actually still wearing his pyjamas, Marquess dived back into his flat to change and emerged minutes later, clean-shaven and wearing his best suit and a pair of musical reindeer socks.

He did not snarl at the traffic warden as he usually did but greeted her with a cheery 'Good Morning!' as he drove past her at three miles per hour, just to be on the safe side. Nor did he wish death and damnation upon the children crossing the road to go to school but hummed 'Little Donkey' cheerfully as he slowed down to let them cross safely.

When he arrived at Bosun House, he spotted the two charity collectors he had spurned the day before hastily climbing into their car as they saw him approach. The driver started the engine but it was too late, Marquess was already upon them and knocked gently at the window.

"Good … good morning, Mr Marquess," he stammered, winding the window down only a short distance. "We were just leaving …"

"I offer my most sincere apologies for yesterday," said Marquess, before the man could say another word, "and I hope you will accept my donation of …" he whispered in his ear, just loud enough for both to hear.

"Wha …? Oh, my goodness, are you sure about that? Such generosity, such …"

"Not a penny less," said Marquess, grinning. "Investment in the stars of tomorrow is no doubt a worthy cause; drama schools often rely on such contributions, do they not? Merry Christmas to you both!"

As they drove away narrowly avoiding flattening one of the fence posts, Marquess noticed that the group of now silent carolling forummers had reappeared but were hiding behind the row of parked cars, no doubt in fear of the threatened bucket of icy water he had promised them the day before.

"Come out, come out, whevever you are!" he sang, peering around the side of one of the cars. "Aha, there you are. What a pleasant surprise!"

As the bemused forummers emerged nervously from their hiding places, Marquess fished around in his briefcase and produced a large handful of signed cast cards.

"Here you go," he beamed, handing them over. "I'll ask one of the security guards to bring you out a nice hot cup of tea in a moment, and of course I'll mention to the cast that you're out here in search of autographs. Merry Christmas to you all!"

"Um, would you like one of these?" a small dark haired girl asked uncertainly, offering Marquess a packet of sweets. He thanked her and took one, pretending not to notice the word 'Warheads' on the wrapper.

"AAARGH!" he spluttered, his eyes watering and his face contorting into expressions which are rarely seen outside a BAFTA award ceremony. "My goodness, wherever did you get these! Yeeeuuuurgh! But what fun; thank you very much!"

He then turned and skipped happily up the steps and into the studios, wishing the security guard and desk staff a very good morning before disappearing into his office to rewrite the script for the Christmas episode.

And what an episode it was! Reg was given a much bigger role, as were all of the long-term characters and a script that made everyone laugh with genuine humour rather than pity. The whole episode was traditional and light hearted, just the way everyone liked it and while it was true that it probably would not be the biggest ratings-grabber of the year, it was immensely enjoyable to film and watch, and not one person had a bad word to say about it.

And the best was yet to come. When filming was finished and Reg had managed to climb back down the chimney, Marquess called all of the cast and crew into the canteen. He announced that big changes would be happening in the new year to make The Bill more realistic while still keeping it exciting and that there would definitely not be any more sackings in the near future. The older cast would be respected more and not given storylines that undermined all their previous years' work and the new ones would not all have to have dark secrets that interfered with their jobs.

After the applause and looks of disbelief had stopped, Marquess brought in a portable CD player and the giant hamper and announced that it was party time! Not wanting to jinx anything, everyone was only too happy to oblige and it was only a matter of minutes before the scene shown to him by the spirit of The Bill Present actually repeated itself, only this time he was in the midst of it, enjoying himself and appreciating all around him like never before, knowing that the future was bright and everyone around him was happy.

Many wondered if perhaps something strange and illegal had been slipped into his drink but it became evident in the weeks that followed that he really was a changed man. Storylines suddenly became realistic without losing their ratings or becoming boring; some real crime was introduced in the form of some good old fashioned burglars and fraudsters and not every officer had to have frequent disasters in their personal lives.

To Jim, who was _not _sacked, he gave the long awaited happy storyline in which he and June finally realised they were soulmates and were married in a joyful and amusing episode in which he finally turned up at the church on a milk float. Marquess became known as one of the nicest, most well humoured, fairest Executive Producers that TV land had ever known. He did not see any more spirits or ghosts but it was always said that he knew better than most how to keep the true spirit of The Bill alive, thinking of the past, present and future with every episode.

May that be said of all of us – and as Jim said, Carlton bless us, every one!

oOo

_Happy New Year!_


End file.
